


Glory and Gore

by soozeywoozey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, relationships and tags will be added as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3266990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soozeywoozey/pseuds/soozeywoozey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An encounter in the gardens with Margaery changes everything for Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, credit to GRRM where credit is due
> 
> So... yeah. This started off as a ficlet for a Secret Santa gift, but I wanted to take it further.
> 
> This was originally sent in 10 parts (as the Secret Santa gift), hence the number of POV changes, but after this there will only be on POV per chapter. I'm also hoping that chapters will also be a bit longer from now one!

**SANSA’S POV**

Sansa was sitting in the gardens, staring out to sea. Her delicate features were blank, hiding the storm of feelings underneath. She felt a chilly edge to the normally mild sea breeze - winter was definitely coming. The thought warmed her, and calmed her thundery thoughts.

Winter was coming, and the Starks would always endure. She had to keep telling herself that. That was the only thing that stopped her from falling to her knees and sobbing until her throat was hoarse, the only that kept her sane, kept her alive.

That and Margaery. The sweet girl from Highgarden meant more to her than anyone else in Kings Landing. She was a mentor, a confidante… a friend. Sansa almost felt safe around her, which was rare enough in this city.

Margaery’s face appeared in her minds eye. The brown doe eyes. The softly curled chestnut hair. Many people called Sansa pretty, but Margaery… Margaery was truly radiant. No doubt having a smile on her face helped with that.

Yet somehow, Sansa didn’t resent her. Quite the opposite in fact; she liked her. Gods only knew why. Rightfully, she should hate her – she had stolen her husband, her place in court. But she had tried to help Sansa, and the gods also knew that few people had done that.

Why though? Why did she bother? Sansa supposed there were political reasons behind, though they made little difference to her.

The fact that she helped was enough.

Sansa was jogged from her thoughts by the sound of footsteps. She groaned inwardly; she couldn’t bear to face another sniggering courtier.

"Lady Sansa!" As soon as she heard the voice, however, the smile began to grow on her face. By the time she had turned around to face it’s owner, it was almost a grin.

"Lady Margaery!" Sansa greeted her politely, yet she was unable to hide the happiness and relief in her voice.

"Please, Sansa, walk with me." Margaery asked her, her mouth curved into one of those beautiful half smiles. Sansa’s heart rose slightly. She did so enjoy her walks with Margaery. They were times when she could be a young girl again, and those precious moments were few and far between. They were precious moments where she could forget the horrors of the last few moons, if only for moments.

"I would love to, my lady!" She replied, managing to mask her excitement behind a meek curtsey. There were always guards behind them on their walks, their heavy treads never more than a few steps begind, but somehow it felt it was just them, Sansa and Margaery, alone together.

"Oh, please! I’m not queen yet!" Margaery threw her head back in a hearty chuckle. "Get up, please! It feels so strange having people curtsey to me, I don’t think I shall ever get used to it!"

Sansa pulled herself back up to her full height, her eyes resting on Margaery’s. “But you are to be queen, my lady.” She gave a small smile, letting out just a dribble of her happiness.

"I’ve told you - you must call me Margaery!" She held out her arm for Sansa to take.

Sansa took it gladly, with a smile. “Very well - Margaery.”

"Very good!" She praised her, her own smile turning into a gleeful grin.

They began to walk, arm in arm, the sound of their small steps echoed by the knights’ clanking gaits.

**MARGAERY’S POV**

"How are you, sweet girl?" Margaery asked, gentle concern in her voice. She was genuinely worried about poor Sansa. Perilous though her own situation was, at least she had friends, help, someone she could trust at court. Sansa had no one - maybe, just maybe… she could be that person for her.

In reply to her question, Sansa looked at her and sighed wearily.

"That bad?" Margaery sighed too, sympathetically.

"I am married to the Imp." Sansa replied, spitting out the last word like a bad taste, crinkling up her nose. She hesitated for a moment before continuing. "I know, I know, he hasn’t mistreated me, and, last night, he didn’t force me-"

"So you didn’t-?" Margaery interrupted, momentarily tightening her grip on Sansa’s arm, her breath catching in the back of her throat. Her mind started to race, jumping from thought to thought.

"No." Sansa assured her, oblivious to the ramifications of what she had just said, and then continued. "So I suppose he isn’t that bad, but-“

"But you know what that means, don’t you?" She interrupted again, her voice lowered to a whisper. Margaery suddenly stopped, to face Sansa, placing her hands on her shoulders. She looked around furtively, checking no one was listening. "It means that you aren’t married."

Sansa’s pretty face immediately creased into a frown. “But- but, the sept- the ceremony-“ She stammered, confused.

"It doesn’t count if you are still a virgin." Margaery whispered in her ear. She looked over her shoulders again. There were few courtiers around, but no one could be counted on not to report to Varys or Tywin Lannister. Taking her hands off Sansa’s shoulders, she herded her down a narrow, slightly overgrown path, leading to a bench under a halo of roses, with a view of the sea.

The knights had tried to follow them, but Margaery stopped them with a look and a murmured mention of Joffrey.

Margaery sat down on the cool stone bench, patting the space next to her. Sansa sank down slowly, evidently still processing the information that Margaery had just sprung on her

Margaery took her hand, and squeezed it gently, running her thumb over the back of Sansa’s hand.

**SANSA’S POV**

Sansa looked over at her, her face creasing up into a grin. Her thoughts were racing far too fast for her to vocalise them: she wasn’t married to Tyrion… She could still marry Loras… She was… free?

No… No. It wouldn’t be that easy. She couldn’t escape the Lannisters that easily.

But then, who else knew that he hadn’t taken her? She sincerely doubted that Tyrion would tell Tywin, and with Tyrion’s reputation as a debauched lecher, most people would have just presumed that he would have done it without second thought.

"So… I’m not married?" She questioned Margaery, forcing herself to stay calm. She couldn’t get her hopes up, only for them to be crushed to pieces.

"I mean, the Lannisters won’t give you up that easily, and I’m sure-" Margaery said calmly.

 _Yes, yes, yes,_ thought Sansa impatiently, who knew first hand what is like to be stuck in the Lannisters’ claws.

"But am I married to Tyrion Lannister?" Sansa interrupted, keeping her voice calm, but subconsciously tightening her grip on Margaery’s hand, which she was still holding.

"Legally, no." She admitted. Then her mouth slowly creased into a feline smirk, and then into a radiant smile. "You’re free. They have no hold on you!"

Only then did Sansa allow her heart to rise slightly. Perhaps she was free. Gods knew she had suffered enough to deserve it. Before she could help it, her mouth had curved into a smile.

Then Margaery hesitated, visibly pulling back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have got your hopes up so much. Cersei will not let you go without a fight… Let alone Tywin. If you and Tyrion had a child, it would be the heir to the North.”

Sansa’s smile faded slightly, then completely. She should have known it was too good to be true.

“Would he-” The consequences of what Margaery had said suddenly hit her. She looked around, paranoid someone was listening, “would he rape me?” She asked, thrown from hopeful to panicked. Since the Hound saved her from those men, she had been… protective of herself, never wanting to let anyone near, feeling anxious even when her handmaiden undressed her.

"Sansa, I’m so sorry, I’ve just made everything worse." Margaery shook her head and looked away.

 _That’s right_ , Sansa thought, _you have_. Yet, strangely, she didn’t hate Margaery for it. She knew she had only been trying to help.

Sansa swallowed down her fear, which had grown thick in her throat. “It’s fine Margaery, it’s no worse than what I expected before.” She looked over at Margaery, giving her a small smile, though there were tears beginning to prick at the back of her eyes.

What she had said was true, it was no worse than she had thought before the wedding, but it was just that… she thought she was free.

Margaery softly squeezed her hand again, though this time out of sadness and sympathy.

**MARGAERY’S POV**

"We will have to act quickly, if we are to make the best of this situation." She said, sombrely. "Grandmother and I will do whatever we can to help you." Looking Sansa in the eye, Margaery took her other hand in hers as she made her promise. She felt it was the least she could do, now that she was in such a position of power.

She could not help but think again about how she was drawn to Sansa, a wolf in the lions den.

She also could not help but see the contrasts between them: Sansa, the wolf, whom everyone expected terrible things from, and herself, the rose, whom everyone expected to be pretty and dim.

"Y-you’re going to help me?" Sansa stammered, her eyebrows raised in disbelief that anyone would risk anything to help her.

"Yes, sweet girl." Margaery smiled reassuringly, letting go of Sansa’s hands and placing one on her shoulder instead.

"Thank you, Margaery, thank you!" Sansa exclaimed gratefully, the beaming smile suddenly erupting out of her face. She hesitated for a moment, before hugging Margaery tightly. "Thank you." She repeated quietly, her mouth right next to Margaery’s ear.

Although the hug took Margaery by surprise to begin with, causing her to tense up, she soon relaxed into it, Sansa’s hair soft as silk against her cheek.

They stayed like that for mere moments, yet it felt like ages. Margaery felt Sansa’s breath softly tickling her ear, the warmth of her hand on her back, even the beating of her heart in her chest.

When they pulled apart, Margaery examined Sansa in the afternoon sun. Her hair, mussed up slightly by the hug, created an auburn halo around Sansa’s head as the sunlight shone through it, and the darkness of her dress accentuated her beautiful blue eyes.

Her cheeks, delicately sprinkled with light freckles, were tinged with pink, evidence of the extreme range of emotions she had been through in the last few moments.

Long, pale auburn eyelashes fluttered as Sansa cast her eyes to the floor.

She was certainly a pretty girl.

**SANSA’S POV**

As soon as Sansa let go of Margaery, she regretted it.

When they pulled apart, Sansa got the feeling that something was missing from her, like she had an arm cut off.

The softness of Margaery’s hair on her cheek, the warmth of her body underneath her hands, the quiet beating of her heart against her chest, they all felt like…

The extreme elation and then devastation had left her in a strange mood; her stomach felt all tingly and odd. Not bad, just odd.

She sat still, facing the floor, but she cast her eyes over to Margaery.

Her hair, half up, half down, tumbled over her shoulders in soft brown curls, framing her face. Sansa had just noted how her light brown eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun, when she realised that Margaery was looking at her too.

But not how she normally looked at her. There was an odd look in her eye… hungry, ravenous, yet so gentle at the same time.

Sansa looked down quickly, blushing.

**MARGAERY’S POV**

While Sansa looked down, blushing, Margaery unashamedly kept her head up, though her cheeks reddened slightly.

Some girls liked pretty girls, and she was not ashamed of that.

"Sansa?" Margaery probed gently, hoping that she had not caused too much embarassment.

"Yes, my l- Maragery?" Sansa lifted her head, her cheeks blazing brighter than her hair. Was she blushing from embarassment of Margaery’s behaviour, or because she was caught doing the same? Or because of another reason entirely?

Margaery could play men like a harp, but girls… they were different.

"I’m so sorry, I hope I haven’t caused you any offense." She apologised sincerely, her own delicately flushed cheeks still tinged with pink.

"No, my- Margaery, not at all!" Sansa shook her head hurriedly.

And Margaery believed her. Though Sansa’s still flaming cheeks suggested otherwise, she trusted what she said.

Suddenly she stood up, walking over to the parapet overlooking the sea. She leant on it, her back to Sansa.

"Margaery?" Sansa stood up too, confused. "Have I done something wrong…?" She asked, approaching Margaery from behind.

"No, sweet girl." Margaery replied, sighing, though not unhappily.

**SANSA’S POV**

The way Margaery had been looking at her had made her feel special, different, wanted.

That was why she was blushing.

When Margaery stood up she felt confused, but was also left feeling like she wanted more. She didn’t know what this strange feeling was, but she liked it.

She desperately hoped that she hadn’t offended or angered Margaery. Sansa craved her companionship, friendship, perhaps even…

"No, sweet girl." Margaery replied, interrupting Sansa’s thoughts, and Sansa heard her sigh, but she didn’t sound upset or unhappy.

Sansa closed the gap between them, stopping when she was right next to Margaery. She placed her hands on the parapet, cool and rough beneath her fingers, but turned her head to look at Margaery, who was still looking out to sea.

After a moment, Margaery turned her head to face Sansa, and gave her a small smile, which Sansa echoed back at her.

 

Sansa couldn’t take her eyes off her lips. They were a beautiful dusky pink, the colour of Margaery’s blush, and looked softer than velvet, curved in the smile, creating pretty dimples in her cheeks.

She looked up, and realised that their faces were mere inches away from each other.

**MARGAERY’S POV**

Equally, Margaery could not take her eyes off of Sansa’s lips. They were perfectly formed, like the rest of Sansa’s body, yet marred by a scar on her bottom lip, presumably from one of Ser Meryn’s beatings. Yet the scar didn’t detract from her beauty - on the contrary, it added to it. It spoke of a hidden strength, stronger than Valyrian steel, and the wolf blood that run through her veins

The gentle tingle of Sansa’s breath on her cheek jogged her out of her reverie, and she looked up Sansa’s eyes, realising how close they were to each other.

Whilst Sansa’s blush deepened, Margaery was unperturbed.

Smiling reassuringly, her eyes flicked back down to Sansa’s lips. She was enchanted by the scar. It was tiny, only noticeable to someone a few inches away, as Margaery was.

Slowly and reverently, as if she was touching a priceless antique, Margaery raised her hand to Sansa’s cheek, placing her thumb on the scar on her lip.

Sansa visibly flinched, but did not back away.

Her skin was like velvet, her lips smooth as silk.

Margaery looked up back up to Sansa’s eyes, finally meeting her gaze.

Neither of them said anything, but after a moment, Sansa raised up her hand, placing it on top of Margaery’s. Then she smiled gently.

Margaery felt the warmth of her hand, the gentle curve of her smooth lips.

In that moment, nothing could touch them.

It was just them, there was nothing else in the world. No Joffrey, no Cersei, no scheming courtiers; just them.

The wolf and the rose.

**SANSA’S POV**

Instinctively, Sansa flinched - no one had given her a kind touch in many moons.

The last person to touch to her cheek was Ser Meryn Trant, with the back of his hand.

However, she did not pull back. Margaery’s hand was warm and soft, and her eyes were full of…

For their eyes had finally met, and Sansa could see everything in Margaery’s sweet brown eyes.

Was that what this strange feeling was? Love?

She thought she had loved Joffrey, but was just a childish obsession. This, this was real.

But at the same time, Sansa knew it was wrong. Women were not allowed to marry other women.

Yet it felt so right.

It felt so right, so natural for her to slowly raise up her own hand, and place it on top of Margaery’s, keeping it in place.

Her lips curved gently into a small smile, but she felt so happy that she thought she float off into the sky, if it weren’t for Margaery’s hand holding her down.

Sansa and Margaery were even closer now, so close they were practically touching.

Sansa could feel the warm tickle of Margaery’s breath on her cheeks, then on her nose, then on her lips.

And then Margaery’s lips were on hers, her tongue gliding over her teeth. Her lips, even softer than they looked, matched up perfectly with Sansa’s.

Margaery’s eyes were closed, but Sansa kept hers open, though she succumbed to the pure pleasure of the kiss mere moments later.

Something in the back of her mind suddenly came to the fore. It was something Margaery had said to her.

_Some women like pretty girls._

**MARGAERY’S POV**

Slowly, inevitably, Margaery closed the tiny gap between herself and Sansa.

She gently planted her lips onto Sansa’s, tilting her head slightly, and closing her eyes reverentially.

It was even better than she had imagined (for she had imagined this moment).

The delicious smoothness of Sansa’s lips wasn’t enough for Margaery though, so she gently pushed the tip of her tongue into Sansa’s mouth, running it over her perfectly formed teeth.

Margaery still wasn’t satisfied though. She placed her hand on the back of Sansa’s neck, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss.

But then Sansa pulled back, taking her hand off of Margaery’s, though that remained on her cheek.

Margaery looked at her with a look of sadness and quiet disappointment. She thought Sansa had liked it, but… clearly not.

"I-" She began to say something, but was interrupted by Sansa, putting her hand round the back of Margaery’s neck and pulling her back into a deep and passionate kiss, pushing her tongue into Margaery’s mouth.

Margaery had time for a relieved smirk before giving herself to the kiss completely.

Some time later - it could have been seconds, minutes, even hours - they pulled apart for breath. They rested their foreheads together; their quick breaths hot on each other’s cheeks.

They were only like this for mere moments, before the sound of footsteps caused them to pull apart hurriedly, both returning to their positions looking out over Blackwater Bay.

“Lady Margaery, Lady Sansa.” They both turned round to see Tyrion Lannister giving a small bow.

Margaery nodded graciously, but Sansa froze, the colour draining from her cheeks, as she was suddenly reminded of what Margaery had told her.

“I hope I am not interrupting anything, my ladies.” Tyrion said politely, looking at both of them in turn, noting Margaery’s softly flushed cheeks, and Sansa’s rapidly draining ones.

“Not at all, Lord Tyrion.” Margaery replied politely, smiling. However, her reddened cheeks belied her words.

He turned to face Sansa, and she looked down to meet his eyes, her face pale.

“Lady Sansa, my father has requested the… pleasure of our company for lunch.” He informed her.

Any colour that remained in Sansa’s face disappeared, her skin now a similar colour to marble. “Very well, my lord.” She bowed her head.

“Thank you for the most interesting walk, Lady Sansa.” Margaery broke the heavy silence. “I hope to see you again soon.”

“And I you, Lady Margaery.” Sansa dipped a formal curtsey, all the intimacy of the moment gone.

“Come, Lady Sansa.” Tyrion offered her his arm, which Sansa took, and began to lead her away.

Sansa had time to shoot one last desperate glance at Margaery over her shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Golden lies and promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter explores Sansa's relationship with Tyrion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! 
> 
> It's a mix of show and book canon, something that will probably be true for the whole story.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

**SANSA’S POV**

Sansa walked alongside Tyrion, keeping her eyes to the floor. She could hear countless muttered insults and stifled giggles, and judging by the clenching of his jaw, Tyrion could hear them too. Sansa could feel a blush creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks. She hated herself – she hated letting them see that they were getting to her.

She tried to push them out of her mind, instead mulling over what Margaery had told her, not to mention what Margaery had done.

What Margaery had done… Had she meant it? Was she just trying to manipulate Sansa? It felt so real, so good.

Whereas before, thinking of Margaery made her feel happy and safe, now it unleashed a torrent of feelings.

Margaery made her feel more than happy, but less than safe, blissful, but dangerous. It wasn’t the same kind of dangerous as when she was with Joffrey though, it was… a good kind of dangerous.

But Sansa felt overwhelmed with guilt; she was obsessing over a girl – not even a man – while her brother was fighting a war.

She was so, so _useless_! Just a stupid little girl.

Sansa suddenly became aware that they had left the crunchy gravel paths of the garden, and were now walking along a shadowy corridor, the sounds of their footsteps echoing around them.

Sansa also became aware that Tyrion was looking up at her expectantly, clearly waiting for her to respond to something he had said.

“I’m sorry, my lord?” She asked politely, looking down at him.

“I asked you how your day was.” Tyrion sighed. “Several times.” He added under his breath.

“It was most pleasant, my lord.” Sansa answered emotionlessly, just repeating her usual answer. “I had a lovely walk with Lady Margaery in the gardens.”

“Yes, I… saw.” He looked at her oddly. “Did you-“ But Sansa never knew what he was going to ask - he closed his mouth when they left the cool shadows of the Red Keep and neared the Tower of the Hand. Perhaps he didn’t want to say anything in front of the Lannister guards, knowing they would report back to his father.

Fortunately, the guard at the entrance of the tower nodded them past quickly, curtly, and without a word, leaving Sansa and Tyrion to climb the stairs in awkward silence.

Sansa’s nerves seemed to grow with each step. She had never met Tywin Lannister, only seen him from afar. At the same time, she was terrified of him and in awe of him. He radiated power, Sansa could almost feel it dripping down on her from his chambers, which must have been somewhere above her head. He could have her killed, give her to Joffrey, kill Robb, kill her mother. But he could also have her returned to them.

That was unlikely, now she was married to a Lannister, but a possibility nonetheless - she still had value as a bargaining chip.

Finally, they reached the top of the stairs.

The guard snapped to attention as soon as he saw them, almost managing to mask the smirk that passed across his lips.

Not well enough, for Sansa noticed it, as, evidently, did Tyrion.

“My father requested the presence of my lady wife and myself for lunch.” Tyrion stated, gritting his teeth.

“Very well, m’lord.” The guard stepped aside, allowing them entrance to Lord Tywin’s private dining room.

Lord Tywin was already seated at the head of the table, which was laid with a meal big enough for six people, let alone three.

 _Two and a half_ , Sansa thought to herself, though she regretted it immediately, even though she hadn’t said it out loud. Tyrion had never treated her with anything but kindness, there was no cause for her to think such malicious thoughts.

She was no longer a child, engaging in petty, spiteful, quarrels with Arya. She was a woman grown and flowered now, no longer dealing with her younger sister (who may be dead, a voice in her head whispered. She silenced it immediately) but with Lord Tywin Lannister, the man who had more power than a king.

She still _felt_ like a girl though. She still felt like silly little girl Sansa, who had never left Winterfell. Sansa didn’t want to be a lady anymore though, she just wanted to go home. That was the difference. She didn’t want to get out, she wanted to go back. Feel the crisp winter air on her cheeks, catch the snow on her tongue. _Like a child_ , she thought bitterly

“Lady Sansa, Tyrion.” Tywin remained sitting, but greeted each of them with a nod and a gesture to sit down.

Tyrion pulled out a chair for Sansa, with some difficulty - they were heavy, solid wood, crowned with a roaring lion. Feeling Tywin’s cold gaze on her, she sat down quickly, keeping her eyes on the table, whilst surreptitiously using her feet to help Tyrion push her chair in. She had somewhat amended her attitude towards him since the wedding - she would help him only insofar as to avoid embarrassment.

“Lady Sansa,” Lord Tywin addressed her as Tyrion was sitting down. “I wished to invite you here to formally welcome you to the family, before dinner tonight.”

“Is dinner really necessary, father?” Tyrion asked, and Sansa could see him rolling his eyes in her minds eye, though her back was to him. “Gods know Sansa been through enough these last few days.” He muttered, before Sansa heard him gulp something down, presumably wine.

Before Tywin could rebuke Tyrion, Sansa managed to open her mouth. “Thank you, my lord. It is an honour.” She said, finally looking up at Tywin, and baulking at the glare on his face, even though it was directed at Tyrion.

“I also wish to apologise on behalf of my grand-son.” Tywin continued, clearly deciding to ignore Tyrion. Sansa still saw the cold anger in his emerald-green eyes, mixed with something else as well.

Could it be respect? But why would he respect her? No, more likely it was pity.

She bowed her head humbly, as she knew she should. “I thank you very much my lord, though I do not need your apologies. I deserved everything Joffrey did, my family are traitors-” She was in the middle of her well-rehearsed response, when Tywin interrupted her.

“No,” He said sharply. “Your family are not traitors. You are a Lannister now, and you would do well to remember it.”

Sansa looked up at him, and felt the blood disappear from her cheeks when she realised. It wasn’t even a mistake. The Lannisters weren’t her family. It wasn’t even true. Her father wasn’t a traitor. It was the Lannisters who were -

She had to stop her thoughts, in case they came  tumbling out of her mouth. She lowered her head again.

“I’m so sorry, my lord, it - I have spent so long apologising for my traitor’s blood. You have honoured me more than I deserve by allowing me to join the great and noble house of Lannister.” Sansa said it as sincerely as she could, but inside she felt like she wanted to throw up.

 _I’m not a Lannister_ , she thought. _I’m not, I’m not, I’m not._

As if repeating it childishly made it true.

Next to her, she heard Tyrion snort into his wine.

Tywin didn’t reply, though she could feel him watching at her as she began to pick at her food. It was delicious, but she had no appetite.

The silence seemed to stretch out for hours, but it could only have been minutes. Eventually, Tywin spoke again.

“I have heard that you did not consummate your marriage last night.” He said it so casually, but as soon as the words came out of his mouth both Sansa and Tyrion snapped up their heads to look at him. Sansa felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment, but she was also worried. What would Tywin do to ensure that the marriage was consummated?

“I know I do not need to impress upon both of you the importance of this marriage being fully legal and binding. And the importance of heirs being produced.” He looked them both in the eye in turn. Sansa felt her blush deepen at the mention of such private matters, but she didn’t dare look away.

“Of course,” he continued, “any sons you bear, Sansa, will be heirs to Winterfell. Once this war is over and Robb Stark has been…” He paused momentarily, seemingly searching for the right word. “Subdued, I promise that you will be able to return there with your son.”

So he would bribe her with Winterfell, to ensure the marriage was consummated. _He must want it a lot if he is willing to return to a Stark to Winterfell._

This, like what Margaery had told her earlier, threw Sansa into disarray. She could return to Winterfell, with the backing of the Lannisters. But she would have to… be taken by Tyrion. And have a son. And she wouldn’t be able to return to Winterfell until the end of war. Worst of all, she wouldn’t be able to return until Robb was ‘subdued’, as Tywin said, or killed, as her common sense said.

It was an option though. More safe, for her, than attempting escape with Ser Dontos. She would be kept safe by the Lannisters if she was the key to the North. Or would they just abandon her once she had given them a half-Stark baby?

If Robb won the war, though, (and he had won every battle so far, she reminded herself) what would be her position then? Robb would keep her safe, she was his sister, but what about any children she had? They would be as much Lannister as Stark. Indeed, if she even survived the birth.

There were too many questions for it to be a good option.

After a long pause, she replied. “Thank you, Lord Tywin, that is a most generous offer.”

“Indeed.” He was staring at her hard, almost as if he was trying to read her mind.

Sansa bowed her head again, and picked up her cutlery to continue to eat. She was interrupted, however, by Tyrion scraping his chair back from the table.

“Well, as enjoyable as this luncheon has been, I am afraid that my lady wife and I must depart.” He announced, shooting a sarcastic smile at his father. “We ought to get going with that consummation!” He looked over at Sansa. “We could even do it right now, here, on the table, seeing as how my father is so keen for it to happen!” He finished off angrily, glaring at Tywin.

Just when her cheeks had returned to their normal colour, Sansa blushed bright red, deeply embarrassed and humiliated by what Tyrion had said.

 _He doesn’t care about how I feel at all_ , she thought. _I thought he was different, but he’s just as bad as all the rest._

Tywin was glaring back at him. “Get out.” He said it so quietly, but that made it seem even more full of displeasure.

“With pleasure.” Tyrion took a mock bow. “Sansa?”

She looked at him over her shoulder, then looked back at Tywin. “Thank you for the delicious luncheon, Lord Tywin.” She said politely, before pushing her chair back from the table and standing up. After straightening out her skirts, she dipped a curtsey to Tywin.

Tywin looked from Tyrion to Sansa. “I apologise for my son’s vulgar language and behaviour. I am afraid it is using something that you’ll have to put up with now you’re married. I hope you will consider carefully what I have said.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Sansa then turned to face Tyrion, who offered her his arm. She took it, clinging on tightly, and they exited the room together.

Neither of them said anything until they were well away from the Tower of the Hand, walking along a quiet path in the garden. The sun was warm on Sansa’s face, and she closed her eyes for a moment. She breathed in deeply through her nose, savouring the scent of the flowers. The sensation of late summer and the dream of winter calmed her a bit.

She didn’t know what to do. Stay here, and wait for Robb to die and the Lannisters to restore her to Winterfell? Wait for Ser Dontos’ plan to come to fruition? She could even go to Margaery for help.

 _No_ , she reminded herself, _I have to keep faith. Robb will win. He’ll charge up to the gates, calling for Joffrey’s head, and then I’ll run out, and mother will be there -_

Tyrion interrupted her daydreaming. “I would also like to apologise for my vulgar language and behaviour.” He said ruefully. “I let my father get to me; I shouldn’t have.” He admitted.

“It’s fine, my Lord.” Sansa replied formally, hiding behind her wall of courtesy again, although even that didn’t seem to protect her from humiliation. She looked down at Tyrion, who was looking straight ahead, in time to see him purse his lips in annoyance.

“It’s not fine. I’ve insulted you, humiliated you. In front of my father, as if that wasn’t bad enough.” Then he sighed, and his voice softened slightly. “You can talk truthfully me, Sansa. I’m not Cersei.”

“But you’re still a Lannister.” She said quietly. He looked up at her, and she met his eyes for a moment before looking away. They were walking along a hallway now, back in the Red Keep.

“That damn name!” He exclaimed jokingly, changing his tone again. “Sometimes I think I would have been better off born without it.”

The way he said the last part made Sansa wonder whether he was joking after all.

She didn’t know what to say in reply, so she said nothing. She wondered if that would become a common event in their marriage - there was so much that Tyrion said that she didn’t how to reply to.

After another long stretch of silence and a flight of stairs, they finally reached their new chambers, in the Kitchen Tower. Tyrion opened the door, allowing Sansa to enter.

She had never seen the room before. It was pretty - intricate painting around the doors and windows - and was filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, coming from the kitchens which were just the other side of a small courtyard. Winterfell Sansa wouldn’t have liked it, she would have thought too plain, drab, even. But King’s Landing Sansa liked it. There was sunlight streaming in, filtered by the thin, white, muslin drapes hanging over the windows. All of her belongings - not that there were many of them - were there too. They must have brought them in during the wedding.

She saw her needlework box, and headed towards it. An afternoon of needlework wouldn’t too bad. Better than having to deal with anymore simpering ladies, smiling to her face and sniggering behind her back.

Tyrion, however, seemed to have other ideas. “Sansa, now we are in private, I thought we might discuss what my father said.” From behind her, she heard him pouring wine into a goblet. She turned around to face him.

“As my lord wishes.” She said meekly. She didn’t sigh out loud, though she felt like it. After that luncheon, she didn’t particularly want to be in the same room as him, let alone talk to him.

He winced at her use of language. “First, I don’t want you to talk to me like that. You don’t have to treat me like Joffrey.”

It was true that he had saved her from Joffrey, but just then, in his father’s chambers, he had sounded scarily like him.

“Very well, my lord.” She wasn’t sure how he wanted her to respond. Start whispering sweet nothings in his ear?

“And stop calling me ‘my lord’! My name is Tyrion, and you may as well use it.” He said this quite commandingly, almost sounding annoyed.

Sansa stiffened. “I am sorry if I have displeased you, m- Tyrion.” She said tightly, catching herself just in time. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead.

Apparently, this was not what Tyrion wanted to hear. He rubbed his eyes wearily, and sighed.

“I’m going about this the wrong way. I’m sorry, Sansa.” He poured himself a goblet of wine from the jug on the table, and took a gulp from it. “I’m sorry about everything. You deserve better than this. Better than me.” He said bitterly. Placing his cup back on the table, he took a step towards her. “But I swear,” he said, much more gently, “by the old gods and the new, that I will protect you.”

Finally, Sansa met his gaze. “Joffrey said that.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but she knew that Tyrion heard her. His eyes hardened, and he turned away, picking up his goblet of wine once again, and taking several audible gulps

Immediately Sansa felt guilt prickling at her. He had been kind to her. She shouldn’t have compared him to Joffrey. Tyrion seemed to hate him almost as much as she did.

She took a breath. “I’m so sorry, Tyrion,” she said, her voice still quiet. Despite her guilt, her apology was still just a plate in her armour of courtesy; she didn’t want particularly want to apologise to him. “I shouldn’t have said that, it was very rude, especially after how kind you’ve been -”

“I’m not my father, Sansa, you don’t need to tell me that.” He snapped, interrupting her. Suddenly, Tyrion turned around, his goblet still in his hand. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then shut it again, shaking his head. After a moment of silence, he turned back around, walked towards the door. After opening it, he hesitated, looking back round at Sansa. “I stand by what I said. I promise I will protect you.”

Before Sansa could say anything, the door had shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I removed the end of the chapter, because I missed out the family dinner that Tywin mentions will be that night (that's in the next chapter). Don't update your story at 3am, kids!


	3. Arbour to Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery talks with her grandmother, and is invited to a Lannister dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long! I had exams, and when they were done, I just had no inspiration whatsoever to write. I hope you enjoy the chapter, even though it's a bit short! Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.

After Sansa was led away by Tyrion, Margaery had dropped her polite smile. The blush took longer to get rid of.

Now that Sansa had left, Margaery felt more able to think things through and reason. It was unlike her to not know the exact consequences of everything she said and did. There was something about Sansa that made Margaery feel like consequences didn’t matter.

 _But they do matter_ , she reminded herself forcefully. _One wrong move and I’m dead_. She couldn’t afford moments like that, where she thought with her heart and not her head. They had been lucky, but was not something Margaery could rely on.

She longed for moments where she thought with her heart though. They were sweet and warm and soft. _Like Sansa’s lips_ , she thought, closing her eyes, longing to run her thumb, then her own lips, over Sansa’s again.

Margaery's feelings towards Sansa had solidified for sure since before the kiss they had shared. _Kiss!_  Despite the necessity for cold logic and reason, part of her revelled in the almost childish recklessness of it. What had happened between them in that moment was not childish though. They both knew what they were doing, even Sansa. The second kiss, when Sansa had taken control…

Margaery opened her eyes with a small sigh. She was letting her heart take over again. If she wanted to see Sansa again, to make sure she was safe, even to kiss her again, then she had to start thinking with her head.

Her head was completely at odds with her heart though. Her head told her that with the kiss, she had endangered herself and her position court. Worse, she had endangered Sansa. What would Joffrey do if he found that Sansa had kissed his betrothed? Kill both of them, most like, and Margaery dared not think how he would do it, what his monstrous mind would think up.

But her heart wanted more, whatever the cost. Margaery sighed again.

She would have to continue very carefully.

After checking that her blush had disappeared with the back of her hand, Margaery smoothed down her skirts, and went back down the slightly overgrown path. She left her face blank - she did not want to invite any conversations.

The two guards clanked to attention when she rejoined the main path, and followed behind her without a word as she quickened her pace. Margaery had decided that the best person to go to would be her grandmother. She would know what to do.

Margaery would have to tell her everything though, for her to be able to help. Though Margaery normally kept nothing from her, she was reluctant to tell her grandmother about Sansa.

She didn't want her grandmother to lose all respect for her, for making the same mistakes as Loras. She had given in to her heart, something her grandmother would not, perhaps, understand. Of course she would still love Margaery, still protect her and counsel her, but that was not the same as respect.

Margaery did not know if her grandmother had ever experienced love, in the romantic sense. She was far too calculating to ever give in to it, that much was for sure. Normally Margaery was very good reading people, but the Queen of Thorns was a closed book to her. All she knew was what her grandmother had told her, which was very little.

Margaery knew her grandmother would help her though. That was what mattered.

As soon as she was in sight of her grandmother's little court, Margaery slowed to a leisurely stroll, and fixed a benevolent smile upon her face. She made her way through the bunch of roses, giving out warm greetings here and compliments there.

Eventually, Margaery reached her grandmother’s lair proper. Lady Olenna Tyrell was enthroned behind a small table, scolding some poor squire whom Margaery didn't recognise. She sent him scurrying off as Margaery sank elegantly into a chair next to her.

“Margaery, my dear.” Her grandmother turned to her, smiling fondly. “What brings you to my dull little corner?”

Margaery didn’t see the point in pretending. Her grandmother would only see through it. She put her elbows on the arm of her chair, and leant closer.

“Can we talk privately here?" Margaery's voice was low but urgent. It was imperative that no one else found out about that kiss before she and her grandmother had worked out what to do. Now she was with her grandmother, Margaery's head was beginning to regain control over her heart. She had been so reckless! But she could not change the past, and, even though her head said otherwise, she did not want to.

Lady Olenna's face remained completely still - the fond smile didn't flicker for a moment as she issued orders to her guards. She wanted to be alone with her granddaughter, and what Lady Olenna wanted, Lady Olenna got.

"Now, child," the Queen of Thorns clasped her hands together, her elbows resting on the arms of her chair, "what is it that you want to tell me?" She demanded more than asked, though not unkindly.

Suddenly, Margaery found herself unable to look her grandmother in the eye.

 _I don't want to lose her respect_ , Margaery thought, more desperately than before. She needed to make it seem like part of a plan, a grand scheme, rather than something done on a wild impulse.

But she couldn't lie. Grandmother would know immediately, and that would be worse than if I'd told her the truth in the first place.

So Margaery steeled herself, and after looking over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, she opened her mouth.

"I kissed Sansa Stark." Saying it out loud somehow made it seem more true. It wasn't just a day dream. Margaery Tyrell had kissed Sansa Stark. And seven hells, she had enjoyed it.

“Hm.” Lady Olenna leant back in her chair, and rested her clasped hands on her stomach. “No one saw you, I hope?” Her expression was unreadable.

“No, no, thank the gods.” Margaery sighed. That was one thing, she supposed.

“Well, I don’t see what all the fuss is about then.” She shrugged.

"But, grandmother, if Joffrey were to find out -" Margaery exclaimed, as loudly she dared, surprised by her grandmother's lack of concern.

"You had better make sure he doesn't find out then, hadn't you?" Lady Olenna raised her eyebrows for a moment, and gave Margaery a thin smile. "I can't imagine he'd be very happy."

"Well, yes- I mean, I suppose..." Margaery raised her eyebrows as well, though more out of shock than anything else. She reached for a grape from the fruit bowl on the table, and placed it in her mouth as she leant back. She chewed it thoughtfully, feeling the tartness on her tongue when it burst.

She was very much surprised by how calm her grandmother was. She had expected exclamations of her stupidity, or at the very least a reproach for her recklessness. Margaery had been terribly reckless, after all. Anyone could have seen them! But she was going over old ground. She needed to look ahead, plan carefully for the future, make sure that if it happened again, it would be safe. But wasn't it the fact that they weren't safe that made it so delicious? No, Margaery decided, that was all Sansa.

"Do you love her?" Lady Olenna asked calmly, looking at Margaery shrewdly.

"Yes." Margaery replied without hesitating, without even thinking. Not thinking is becoming a dangerous habit, a small voice in her head whispered. She looked her grandmother in the eye as she answered. "But how? I couldn't say. I want her to be safe, I want to protect her. She's so alone, she needs someone to trust, a friend. I want desperately to be that person, but..."

"The kiss." Her grandmother said archly, finishing her sentence.

Margaery nodded slowly, and sighed, her gaze wandering from her grandmother's face and on to the sea behind her.

"I loved a girl once, a very long time ago." Lady Olenna reminisced.

Margaery's attention was instantly drawn back to her. "Really?" She exclaimed, surprised. "Who was she?" Margaery asked, intrigued. She had never heard this before, not even in rumours. It was so long ago, she supposed all the people who knew were dead.

"A maid as red as autumn, with sunlight in her hair." She quoted.

 _Like Sansa_ , Margaery thought.

"I don't recall her name," Lady Olenna frowned, "but it was shortly before I was betrothed to that Targaryen."

"Did anyone find out? What happened?" Margaery pressed, still wanting to know more.

"Vineyards are very good for hiding in." Her grandmother said enigmatically.

"But what happened to her?" Margaery near demanded, almost hiding her exasperation.

"I believe she got married." Her grandmother recalled. "I never saw her again."

Margaery thought she could detect a touch of sadness in her grandmother's voice.

"Anyway," Lady Olenna said in a way that signalled that that part of the conversation was over, "as long as you keep it quiet, and Joffrey believes you are a maid on your wedding night, you can do what you want.” She waved her hand dismissively. “You told me, asked me for counsel, which is more than your brother ever did." She rolled her eyes.

“I suppose you must think me an awful fool now.” Margaery said ruefully, popping another grape in her mouth.

“No, no, my dear, of course not!” Her grandmother leant forward and patted her hand. “You are still young, and Sansa Stark is a very pretty girl.”

Those few words made Margaery feel much less like a silly child. She valued her grandmother’s opinion so much, so it meant a lot to know that she didn’t look down on her for acting on her feelings.

After a few moments of silence, the distant chattering of ladies drifting over, Margaery spoke up again. “I want to help her, grandmother.” She knew that their options were limited - they could no longer marry her to Willas, unfortunately, due to her marriage to the Imp. Sansa would have had a good life with Willas in Highgarden. Boat rides down the Mander, rides on Willas’ horses, walks in the rose gardens…

It would have suited Sansa down to the ground.

“Now that she is married to the Imp, I fail to see anything that we can do.” Lady Olenna echoed Margaery’s thoughts out loud.

“The marriage is not consummated, though.” Margaery informed her grandmother suddenly lowering her voice, although she was sure that half the court knew. She had forgotten about that, just for a moment.

“Oh?” Her grandmother raised an eyebrow, cocking her head to one side slightly. “How interesting. Thank you for telling me.”

“If the marriage has not been consummated, could it be set aside?” Margaery’s mind began to leap forward, from idea to idea. “Could I persuade Joffrey? It would amuse him to think that his uncle was incapable of bedding Sansa, he would take great pleasure in announcing it to the court, taking her away from him and giving to her to someone more deserving, like-”

“-Willas.” Her grandmother said, following Margaery’s plan. “And his injury will ensure that Joffrey still thinks he is punishing Sansa by giving her to a cripple.” She finished. She was smiling fondly at Margaery. “You are good, you know. That is a very good idea, and it might just work.”

Margaery felt a twinge of guilt at the further humiliation of Lord Tyrion, but she didn’t care about him, as long as Sansa was happy. She also felt proud of herself - instead of losing her grandmother’s respect, she seemed to have gained some more.

She allowed herself to relax, to bask in the hope of the new plan, for a moment. If she got Sansa to Highgarden, she would have an excuse to see her whenever she wanted. After all, it was only natural for a woman to want to spend time with her family. How natural what she wanted to do with Sansa was was another matter entirely.

But Sansa was too pure, too good for anything so wanton and dirty. She was perfect, like a porcelain doll, and she’d already been broken before. What Margaery wanted, first and foremost, was to keep Sansa safe and make her happy.

At the sight of a boy in Lannister livery coming towards her through her little court, Margaery sat up straight. He marched right up to her and her grandmother, a rather haughty expression on his face.

“Lady Olenna, Lady Margaery.” He bowed to each of them in turn. “Lord Tywin Lannister requests the pleasure of Lady Margaery Tyrell's company at supper this evening.”

Margaery smiled graciously. “I am honoured by this request. Please tell Lord Tywin that I gladly accept, and I look forward to this evening.”

“Yes, m’lady.” He nodded curtly, then marched away again.

Already dreading the supper, Margaery groaned as soon as he was out of earshot.

“Stay strong, child.” Her grandmother patted Margaery’s hand, her voice more gentle than it had been through the whole conversation, almost unusually so.

* * *

Later, it was Joffrey rather than her grandmother who was clasping Margaery’s hand. His hand was cold and clammy, but his grip was uncomfortably tight. Yet still Margaery smiled and simpered, with a growing feeling of nausea.

She had had to endure a walk around the gardens with him, even before dinner with the lions. Unlike her walk with Sansa, it was extremely unpleasant. All Joffrey ever seemed to talk about was killing things. Sansa was right when she called him a monster.

Sansa was all Margaery could think about. It was getting dangerous. Several times she was jogged out of “just silly daydreams, your grace, of our wedding. Won’t it be wonderful? You’ll look so handsome!”

She mustn’t let herself get distracted like that. She always had to say the right thing, do the right thing, so she needed to be constantly aware of what was going on. As sweet as Sansa was, she wouldn’t be able to save Margaery from Joffrey’s displeasure.

But finally (thankfully) the walk in the gardens was over, and Joffrey was escorting her to dinner.

“This dinner’s going to be awful, I don’t want to go.” Joffrey whinged. “My uncle’s going.” He said distastefully, wrinkling his nose.

“Your grace, if you are there, it could not possibly be awful. You are so clever and witty, it is always a pleasure and a privilege to dine with you. I’m sure that is why your grandfather invited you.” Lies, lies, lies. Margaery could hardly believe that Joffrey swallowed them.

“Yes, I suppose.” He smirked. “My mother really does have quite a sad little life. Dinner with me is most likely the best part of her week.”

“I’m sure, your grace.” Margaery smiled at him, as they approached the Tower of the Hand.

The two Lannister guards stood to attention, each acknowledging the king with a curt “your grace”.

The stairs leading up to Lord Tywin’s chambers were lit mostly by flickering torchlight, the occasional arrow slit letting in the day’s last rays of sun.

Climbing stairs was not to Joffrey’s liking, however - he considered it unfair that the king should have to go such effort to see any of his subjects, it was an honour for him to grace them with his presence at all, he said. _He wouldn’t say that to Lord Tywin_ , Margaery thought to herself as she murmured words of praise and agreement.

When they at least reached the top of the stairs, they were greeted reverentially by the guard there, who also announced their presence to Lord Tywin.

Joffrey swaggered into his grandfather’s chambers slightly ahead of Margaery, though he was still holding her hand. They were richly decorated, and the lion of Lannister was always present. The chairs, the plates, the drapes. It seemed rather an aggressive show of dominance to Margaery. She much preferred to see the Tyrell rose twining around the legs of chairs and climbing up drapes. It was more elegant, more subtle.

Lord Tywin and Lady Cersei were both already present, and they both stood to greet Margaery and Joffrey. Lord Tywin was courteous but curt, giving them a nod and a “your grace, my lady”. Cersei was much more affectionate, giving Joffrey a warm, motherly smile, to which he returned a sneer. She gave Margaery a kiss on each cheek, which felt like the pecks of a carrion crow. It was strange how she seemed to be so lovely and yet so hateful at the same time. For it did feel like she hated Margaery. She was marrying her son, taking him and his power away from her, Margaery supposed. She needed to be careful around Cersei, not that she was ever anything less than that. Cersei was full of low plots but she was not as cunning as she thought, or so Margaery’s grandmother told her.

In return, Margaery gave Cersei a benevolent smile, and complimented her dress. The red brought out the green of her eyes, she said, though really Margaery thought the dress made her look fat. Perhaps that was just Cersei drinking too much wine though - her cheeks seemed fuller too.

After some small talk - discussing the weather and the gardens and other similarly insignificant things - Sansa and Lord Tyrion arrived.

So as not to draw any undue attention, Margaery hung back for a moment. Tywin greeted the unlikely (and unhappy) couple with a nod, much briefer than the one he had given Margaery and Joffrey - perhaps something had happened at their lunch. Cersei greeted Sansa with a smile that seemed almost genuine, but was cloying, too sickly sweet. She all but ignored Tyrion, only shooting him a distasteful look.

Once Sansa and Tyrion had been given goblets of wine, and Tyrion had drained his, Margaery approached them. She dipped Tyrion a small curtsey, before giving Sansa a friendly smile. “Lady Sansa! It is a pleasure to see you again. I very much enjoyed our walk in the gardens this morning.” At this Sansa cast her eyes to the floor, before looking back up, her cheeks a little coloured. “I would be honoured if you joined me again tomorrow.”

“Of course, Lady Margaery, if it please you.” Sansa smiled, bowing her head again.

“It would.” Margaery grinned at Sansa then moved away, before she made any mistakes. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust herself, but it was of the utmost importance that nobody suspected anything of the true nature of their relationship.

But then, what was their relationship? Not lovers, surely. A kiss (or two) did not make them lovers. No! Not now! Margaery told herself fiercely, her face still a mask of gracious smile and sparkling eyes. She could not believe her lack of self control.

Mentally scolding herself, she accepted a goblet of wine offered by a page. She did not intend to drink the wine; she needed a clear head. She pretended to take a sip as she surveyed the room.

Joffrey was with Tywin, looking bored but not daring to say anything. Sansa had been cornered by Cersei, and was looking thouroughly miserable.


	4. The Lions' Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Margaery take dinner with the Lannisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been such a long time since I last updated! I'm a slow writer when I have nothing else to do, and school has majorly gotten in the way. 
> 
> TW for sexual assault (it's nothing hardcore but I like to be careful)
> 
> I hope you enjoy! As before, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome!

**SANSA**

“What’s it like then, little dove, to be a married woman? And married to my little,” at this Cersei chuckled into her wine, “brother, at that.” She finished off the sentence with a cruel smirk, her green eyes sparkling with malice.

“It’s very nice, your grace, I am most grateful to your father for arranging the match, it’s more than I could ever hope for as the daughter of a traitor.” Sansa barely even hesitated, the lie coming easily to her lips. Every time she had to lie like this, pretend to be _grateful_ to the _Lannisters_ , she felt sickened. It felt like a betrayal to her brother and her mother, even just pretending.

Cersei scoffed. “Oh, come now, little dove, you needn’t lie to me.” She took another sip (more like gulp) of wine from her goblet, and leant closer to Sansa. “You can tell me the truth, I know already how much of a monster he is.” Her voice turned bitter, and her face creased with hatred, her nose wrinkling up and her mouth turning down.

The truth was that Sansa hated Kings Landing and wanted to go home, to the North, to Winterfell. The truth was that Sansa was scared, terrified, even, of every person in the room, with the exception of Margaery. The truth was that Sansa didn’t want to be married. But she couldn’t tell the truth. She hadn’t told the truth in many moons. Sansa could smell the wine on Cersei’s breath; she took a sip of her own wine for courage, and had to stop herself from grimacing as it burned the back of her throat.

Cersei saw the look of distaste pass over Sansa’s face, and straightened up, chuckling again. “You’d better learn to like wine, you’ll need it, being married to my brother.” She leant close to Sansa again, though this wasn’t far - Sansa was almost of a height with Cersei, though she somehow felt so much smaller.

“I hate him.” Cersei’s once beautiful face was twisted into a grotesque scowl. “He is a foul creature. But you would have discovered that last night.” The corners of her mouth turned up into another a cruel smirk. “You are truly his wife, now that he’s dirtied those white feathers of yours.”

Sansa blushed delicately at Cersei’s metaphor and took another sip of wine, this time barely noticing the sour taste. She shifted uncomfortably as Cersei continued watching her, the smirk still hovering around her lips. “Yes, your grace.” Sansa replied quietly, gripping her goblet tightly.

“And what was it like?” Cersei asked gleefully. “Was his cock as ugly as his face?” She leered, and Sansa could see where Joffrey got his horrid leer from.

Sansa’s blush deepened. Cersei must have drunk more than she’d thought. “Your grace!” Sansa gasped softly, half in shock and half in protest. All the Lannisters were as bad as each other, all vulgar and cruel. But then, they had grown up without a mother to guide them. For that, Sansa almost pitied them. Almost.

“Well?” Cersei pressed. “Did he hurt you?” Though the words made it seem like Cersei was worried about Sansa, she was not. Her voice was filled with cruel glee. Cersei put her hand on Sansa’s arm and started squeezing. “Or did he pleasure you? He must have learnt something from all those whores.” She sniggered.

By now, Sansa’s cheeks were a rich crimson, and Cersei’s grip was starting to hurt her arm. “Your grace, please, I don’t think that this is appropriate conv-” Sansa was almost begging, when Margaery appeared next to Cersei.

Cersei stepped back, letting go of Sansa, replacing her cruel smirk with a sickly sweet smile for Margaery.

“Lady Margaery, how lovely to see you.” Again, Cersei’s voice belied her words - beneath the politeness was barely veiled contempt.

“And you, your grace.” Margaery smiled, bowing her head. “It’s always a pleasure to spend time with the mother of my beloved.”

“I was just talking with Lady Sansa about wifely duties. Of course, you’d know all about those, having been married before.” Cersei added, half-smirking. She had clearly been unable to resist an opportunity to bring Margaery’s honour into question.

“Actually, no, your grace. If you recall, the marriage was never consummated.” At this Margaery shot Sansa a look. “So I am able to marry my true love, Joffrey.” She smiled at Cersei, no doubt angering her further.

Before Cersei could retort, Lord Tywin announced that dinner was served.

Everyone took their seats. Lord Tywin was at the head of the table, and Cersei at the other end. Sansa was seated next to Joffrey (her stomach dropped) and opposite Tyrion. Pages entered with the food, placing it on the table silently. The golden plates were overflowing, and Sansa felt slightly sick. Though she had eaten little at lunch, the presence of Joffrey, and indeed Cersei and Tywin, made her feel on edge.

“I propose a toast.” Tywin broke the silence. “To the new members of the family. Ladies Sansa and Margaery, your children will unite the kingdom.” Margaery smiled graciously, and Sansa tried, though she felt it was almost impossible to smile in her current circumstances. At the mention of children, another wave of nausea passed over her. How could she bear children when she was barely more than a child herself?

Lord Tywin lifted his goblet and took a cursory sip, as did everyone else around the table, with the exception of Tyrion, who drained his goblet.

“Lady Sansa, you must be very grateful to have married my uncle. A traitor’s daughter hardly deserves to marry a Lannister.” Joffrey smirked his mother’s smirk, his mouth widening to a grin as Sansa felt a pressure on her leg. Joffrey’s hand was pressing down on her upper thigh. They couldn’t stop touching her, like she was just their toy. Which she was, Sansa supposed.

“Yes, of course, your grace.” She said quickly, ignoring his hand and meeting Joffrey’s eyes. “My family- My old family,” she corrected herself (though it wasn’t correct, not at all, she thought fiercely), “are traitors, I am glad to leave them behind me. Lord Tywin did me a great honour in suggesting this match.” Tyrion snorted as she finished.

Cersei shot Tyrion a venomous glare, and opened her mouth to speak, but Margaery got there first.

“I’m so looking forward to the wedding!” She exclaimed, smiling at Joffrey.

Sansa would have relaxed, relieved that the attention was away from her, but Joffrey’s hand was still on her leg, squeezing uncomfortably. She wanted to shout out, tell everyone, or at least push it off, but she knew that Joffrey would make her pay later. Sansa hated that her body was no longer her own. Someone was always touching her, hitting her, squeezing her, and when they weren’t, they were talking about her maidenhead or the children they wanted her to have. When she kissed Margaery, she had been control, if only for a moment. Usually she felt so powerless, but for once she had been able to make her own choice.

Margaery continued, looking to Cersei. “There’s so much to plan!” She grinned excitedly (her cheerfulness seemed to irritate Cersei). “My dress, the food, the entertainment, it’s all terribly exciting. You must have luncheon with my mother, grandmother, and I some day.”

“Yes, of course, we must arrange something.” Cersei replied, her smile quite obviously forced. Her eyes, which had once seemed so warm and kindly to Sansa, were cold with clear dislike.

Sansa began to pick at her food, her appetite completely non-existent thanks to her company. It was delicious, but very rich, and she already felt sick with nervousness. She shifted the food around her plate, taking occasional nibbles to avoid further attention.

“Lady Sansa, is the food not to your liking?” She could practically hear the smirk in Joffrey’s voice, and her stomach contracted even further.

“On the contrary, your grace, the food is delicious.” She looked to Joffrey, confirming that, yet again, he was smirking, his horrid, pink, wormy lips covered in flecks of food. “Thank you so much, Lord Tywin, for inviting us to dine.” She turned to him briefly before looking down at her plate again. She heard Tyrion taking a deep gulp of wine (he was already on his third goblet), no doubt to hide another snort of derision.

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Sansa.” Tywin replied, though he wasn’t even looking at her - he was glaring at Tyrion, which he seemed to spend a lot of his time doing.

“Then why aren’t you eating?” Joffrey pressed, intent on humiliating Sansa, though he knew as well as she that that was completely unnecessary in front of Tywin, Tyrion, Cersei, and Margaery. He didn't need to show his power here.

Sansa continued to stare at her plate, the lion emblazoned on it clear, even through the mounds of food. That only made her feel more uncomfortable. “I-” She stammered after a long pause, before Margaery saved her.

“Oh, us ladies don’t get very hungry, your grace!” She laughed, and Joffrey turned from Sansa to her. “Isn’t that so, Lady Sansa?”

“Yes!” Sansa seized on it, shooting Margaery a grateful smile. “I don’t do very much, I just sit around all day, your grace.” She did her best to give Joffrey a self-deprecating smile and laugh, though she still felt quite sick.

Joffrey huffed, glowering at her, but wasn’t brave enough to do anything in the presence of his grandfather and his betrothed. His hand remained on her leg, an uncomfortable physical reminder of her powerlessness.

Sansa tried to eat more of the food, not wanting to draw any further attention to herself, but she took no pleasure from it. It sat heavily in her stomach, as if she had eaten a pile of rocks.

For a while, no one spoke, the only sounds the clinking of cutlery on plates and the sloshing of wine; that was Tyrion. He was steadily becoming drunk, Sansa saw, with a growing sense of dread. He said the most awful things when he was drunk. Lord Tywin had evidently noticed too, if the glares he was giving Tyrion after almost every mouthful he took were anything to go by.

Eventually Margaery broke the silence, bringing up the charitable work that she had been doing. Cersei scowled - she was well into her cups too, though not as much as Tyrion. Joffrey seemed interested, almost impressed - though his mother told him otherwise, some part of him must know that he needed the respect of his people. Or did he? He was a monster.

Sansa was truly impressed. Margaery would be a wonderful queen, respected and loved by the people. Sansa only hoped that Joffrey would be kind to her. It was a silly hope, she knew that, but she hoped it anyway. That, or that Joffrey would die early. The only person that would mourn him would be Cersei. No one else would care. Many would celebrate. The realm would be better off without him. But Sansa pulled herself away from her wishes. She needed to concentrate on what was happening now.

Margaery was carrying most of the conversation, fending off the occasional patronising comment from Cersei. Joffrey spoke occasionally, complimenting her or asking a question. He was eating out of the palm of her hand, though his hand was still on Sansa’s leg.

It was this that Lord Tywin seemed impressed with, rather than Margaery’s work with the orphans of Kings Landing. She was handling Joffrey well, which was more than Sansa had ever done. Margaery seemed to exude an air of confidence which Joffrey… respected? Sansa wasn’t sure what it was, but Joffrey listened to Margaery. Or appeared to, anyway. Perhaps he was only treating her well because he had to to secure the alliance with Highgarden. Sansa had had no friends, no family, no allies at court, so Joffrey was free to do with her as he willed. But Margaery had the might of Highgarden to behind her, and if Joffrey mistreated her there would be consequences. Nevertheless, he did seem to be somewhat in awe of Margaery. She was older, wittier, more experienced than Sansa had been, and so perhaps more suitable to keep Joffrey in line.

Even Margaery could only carry a conversation for so long, and soon the table fell into silence again. No one else spoke until everyone had finished their food. Even Sansa had managed to clear her plate, though she had had to practically force the food down her throat. Her heart sank slightly when the servants reappeared with plates piled with cakes. She just wanted to go to bed.

But she took a cake when she was offered one, again not wanting to draw Joffrey’s ire. Not wanting to draw the ire of various people seemed to be the only reason she did things. She ate the cake quickly, breaking it up with her fingers.

The silence was crushingly heavy, almost suffocating. Tywin had been glaring at Tyrion for most of the meal, which added to the feeling of hatred at the table. It was horrid, nothing like how family meals should feel.

It was almost over. It had to be - they had finished dessert now. She took some strength from that. She just hoped that Tyrion wouldn’t humiliate her again. It had been bad enough in front of Tywin, but in front of Joffrey? She could imagine his glee, how entertaining he would find it. She was loath to give him the satisfaction of seeing her humiliated.

Finally, it was Joffrey who spoke. “Thank you, grandfather.” His tone was somewhat bored. “But if that’s all, then I will take my leave.” He took his hand from Sansa’s leg, instead placing it on the arm of his chair, as if to leave.

Sansa relaxed, but only a bit. She could feel his handprint burning into her thigh, branding her as his. She may have wedded Tyrion, but Joffrey could still torment her as he wished, this dinner had shown that.

“Of course, your grace.” Tywin nodded. He stayed sitting as Joffrey stood.

Margaery rose too, smiling at Lord Tywin. “Thank you for inviting me, my Lord. The meal was delicious, and it was honour to dine with you and your family.” At this she smiled briefly at Cersei before turning back to Tywin.

“It was my pleasure, Lady Margaery.” His mouth curved slightly, but Sansa wouldn’t have called it a smile.

With that, Joffrey walked around the table to offer Margaery his arm. She took it with a smile, and then they left the room. Sansa heard Margaery’s musical laugh echoing along the hallway before the guard closed the door.

“Cersei, Lady Sansa, I would speak to Tyrion alone.” Tywin commanded, staring at Cersei, who was staring back rebelliously.

Sansa stood up hurriedly, not wasting time now that she had been given the opportunity to leave. “Of course, my lord.” She said quickly. She gave him a deep curtsey, then fled.

As she descended the stairs of the Tower of the Hand, she heard Cersei shouting, no doubt objecting to not being privy to whatever Tywin wanted to talk to Tyrion about. Most likely it would be about her, or more specifically, her maidenhead.

Would she ever have control over herself again? Or was this it? Would the rest of her life just be people touching her, telling her what to do? She longed to be free. Before, that longing made her think of Winterfell, of playing in the snow, of catching snowflakes on her tongue, but now it made her think of Margaery.

Everything had happened so fast, yet that moment had stretched out forever. Sansa felt like she had passed a whole lifetime in Margaery’s lips, but it had still been too short.

Yet even while Sansa was craving more of Margaery’s lips, she was unsure if it was proper, if it was correct. Her mother and septa had never told her about other women like they had told her about men, though they had told her precious little about them too.

But then why, if it wasn’t correct, did it feel so right?

Suddenly, Sansa realised that she didn’t know where she was. She hadn’t been paying attention to where her feet had been taking her. She turned around, retracing her steps until she was somewhere she recognised. She pushed Margaery from her mind (easier said than done), focusing on getting back to her chambers.

The chambers she shared with her husband. The feeling of sickness returned. The mere thought of Margaery had calmed her, despite the intense mixture of thoughts it provoked, distracting her from reality.

Sansa rounded a corner, and was relieved to see that she had reached their chambers. She approached the door, but before she could open it a hand grabbed her shoulder.

Before she even had time to scream, it span her around and pinned her against the door. A face appeared right in front of her, twisted into that smirk she knew so well.

It was Joffrey.

“Y-your grace,” Sansa stammered, her heart pounding. There was no one else here. There was no one to stop him. Fear clogged up her throat.

“Lady Lannister!” He exclaimed, his smirk growing into a grin. “I thought I’d pay you a little visit. It was so lovely to see you at dinner. But I was worried that you might think that, because you’ve married, you’re no longer mine. And, of course, the King can have who he likes.” He moved his free hand onto her breast, squeezing it painfully. “I told you that at your wedding feast, and I’m telling you again now.”

“Y-yes, of course, your grace!” Sansa bowed her head fearfully.

“Look at me!” Joffrey demanded, displeased that Sansa was looking away.

She snapped her head up, desperate to avoid a beating, or worse. At least there were no members of the Kingsguard with him, so he wouldn’t set them upon her. She took small comfort from that.

He put his mouth right up against her ear. “I can have you, whenever I want.” His breath was uncomfortably hot on her skin.

“Please, your grace!” She finally let out a sob. She could have held it in - as scared as she was of Joffrey, she was becoming used to him - but he liked seeing her cry. She hoped that he might leave, satisfied, if she cried.

She was right. He pulled back, smirking triumphantly. “Not tonight. My uncle could be back at any time, and I don’t want to be interrupted.”

Sansa let out another sob, and Joffrey let her go. She didn’t wait around, fumbling with the latch and slipping inside her chambers as soon as he was gone.

She leant against the door for a moment, her eyes squeezed shut. She would not be able to escape Joffrey as long as they were both in the Red Keep. _I hope he does die,_ Sansa thought viciously. She comforted herself with the thought that she had options. There was Lord Tywin’s offer, Lord Baelish and Dontos’ plot, and Margaery. She pulled herself up, wiping her eyes, and carried on, as she knew she must.

Margaery. Had it really only been that morning that they had kissed? It seemed like so much longer ago.

Sansa had no handmaidens - her old ones had not followed her into her marriage and she had not engaged any more - so she began to ready herself for bed. She took the pins out of her hair and took off her dress. It was not difficult, her dress was not intricate. But she left her smallclothes on. She would consider Lord Tywin’s offer, but she didn’t want to commit to anything. She needed to think very carefully; she would go to the godswood tomorrow.

Tyrion entered as she was sitting at the dressing table in her nightgown, brushing her hair. She put down her brush, looking over at him. He was drunk (of course he was drunk), almost as drunk as he had been at their wedding.

“Sansa, my dear,” he slurred. “Come, sit with me, drink!” He gestured to the table, which had a flagon of wine on it.

She did as he said. He poured two goblets of wine, somehow managing to not spill any (he was very practised at pouring wine, she supposed). He pushed one towards her. She took it, taking a small sip - they were alone, but she still wanted to be in control of her body (she so rarely did have control).

“My father wanted to impress on me, yet again, the importance of us doing our _duty._ ” He spat the last word, his already ugly face made even uglier by a grimace.

Sansa took a gulp of wine, and Tyrion chuckled. “My thoughts precisely.”

He grew serious again. “I may be a drunken little lust-filled beast, but I want you to be happy.” He took her hand, which was resting on the table next to her goblet of wine.

She thought he was meant to be clever. How could she be happy here? How could she be happy whilst her brother was fighting a war, whilst Joffrey was tormenting her, whilst she was married to him?

Perhaps this was clear in her face, for Tyrion looked away, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, that was stupid.” He looked up again, trying to meet her gaze, then sighed. “I don’t know how to go about this… I just want you to trust me. I said I won’t force you, and I meant it. Fuck my father.” He gesticulated with the hand holding his goblet, slopping wine onto the floor.

“Thank you, m- Tyrion.” She said, finally meeting his gaze. He had been good to her, at times, she supposed. He was just so unpredictable - she never knew if he would help her or humiliate her. So she couldn’t trust him. She decided not to tell him about Joffrey too - there was nothing he could do about it, and if Joffrey found out it would just make everything worse.

Tyrion smiled, but it only made his face more repulsive due to his lack of a nose. Sansa had to try and find the beauty in him, she knew that, but it was so difficult!

“If you don’t mind, I would like to go to bed, I am very tired.” She said quietly, looking away.

“Of course!” He stood, swaying slightly.

She stood too, placing her goblet on the table. As she made her way around the bed, she could feel his eyes on her. She climbed into the bed, the sheets cool on her skin. Not wanting Tyrion to try to talk to her again, she closed her eyes.

The first thing that came into her head was Margaery. It felt wrong, lying in her marriage bed and thinking of somebody else. Was the fact that it was a woman better or worse?

As she listened to Tyrion undressing, she could not help but remember his ugliness, which only made her think of Margaery more. Margaery was so perfect, so radiant, and Tyrion was… Tyrion. She felt a bit guilty comparing them, but how could she not?

But then that shallow, petty guilt was overwhelmed by something much deeper - her brother was fighting a war, and Sansa couldn’t stop thinking about a pretty girl!

If she got out of Kings Landing before she consummated her marriage with Tyrion, she could still make another match, be useful to Robb. Marrying a Tyrell may get her out of the city, but it would be useless - the Tyrells would never abandon the Crown for her brother. Lord Baelish, on the other hand, was a friend of her mother’s. He would probably return Sansa to her, but there was a worrying lack of certainty. All that was certain was that Lord Tywin wanted to secure Winterfell, and that required Sansa and a half-Stark baby. But it would be a complete betrayal of her brother, not to mention the act of making a baby with Tyrion and carrying it to term in this terrible place.

Suddenly she heard the rustling of sheets on the other side of the bed. She stiffened. She felt the bed sink slightly as Tyrion climbed in, but he didn’t touch her.

Tyrion soon began snoring loudly, but Sansa could not sleep. She just couldn’t stop thinking about Margaery and the kiss. It almost seemed like a dream now. The softness of Margaery’s lips, the look in her eyes, gentle and hungry at the same time, it was all burnt into Sansa’s memory, a blessed change from her father’s execution. That thought plunged her into guilt again. Thinking about a girl just seemed so silly and frivolous, but Sansa’s mind was like a runaway horse, careering between Margaery and the feeling that this was somehow a betrayal of her family.

She tried to distract herself, tried to think about her next piece of needlework (it probably ought to be a lion, but that felt like a betrayal), but when she eventually drifted into a restless sleep, her last thought was of Margaery.


End file.
